In a village in the rural parts of France, Ezé say a quiet, solemn painter to be
The townsfolk communed each Sunday, they worked on weekdays and rested on the weekends. Peasants worked, sweat and blood, just to live. Slaves destined to do work until it kills them. And Aristocrats who drink and sip their wine, in their adorned palaces.
This was the natural order of things
Of course, to Michel. It was insufferably boring.
Not once in his life, did he feel even a twinge of excitement.
Working in such a dull environment, made him also naturally tired of it.
A simple life it was.
And while Michel peered out the window, he heard the soft rumbling of clouds outside. He always took the thought of rain as god crying. Either from happiness or sadness, Michel could tell not.
Michels eyes landed on a figure, softly sat in the empty green valley. Dark clouds covering the sky. In the arms of figure was a man, dead it seemed, for his eyes did not twinkle as they should. And teeth deep into the man’s neck.
Of course Michel was scared, how could he not? He had only heard of such things from tall tales told by the church, about demons from what they call Hell.
As the rain started to pour, the figure turned its head to the sky. And only then could Michel witness its face.
‘Beauty, and reserved solemnity, timeless flesh etched with Joan’s Arc’
‘This rain is not of agony, but of happiness beholding the perfect being who sits in this very valley before me.’ Michel thought.
After that day Michel grew into one of the best painters of the renaissance era. Now known universally as, Michelangelo.
Now in his 30’s almost all of his works depicting a beautiful figure, never showing its face. Always back turned, or face away.
Each day he wept for the beauty of this figure.
He couldn’t bare it, beauty had to be drawn, recorded, or even spoken about. And yet he could never seem to get it right.
The sublimity overwhelmed him, his tears were not those of sorrow—no— they were from rejoice.
And to him this figure, was the only thing even more worthy than he could ever dream of painting. No other subject, and no other muse.